Page 48 of At the Mercy of Midnight
“I’ve never seen the snow,” she said on a sigh, laughing lightly as she met his eyes.
He returned the smile warmly, basking in her joyous moment.
“It is beautiful,” he conceded, “though be careful underfoot, it can be very slip—”
A gasp tore from her, the heel of her boot hitting a patch of ice. She slid forwards while her arms careened, screeching with shock. Silas shot out a hand, catching her before she could fall, twisting her towards him. She panted, her gloved hands clutching his arms.
“You have to stop falling for me,” he joked, unable to help himself.
Her glare was so familiar that he laughed before directing her to the stones which had already been salted. She toed at the ground uneasily, and finding traction, began to move with more confidence.
They walked through the city, a maze of stone towers and archways, built into the mountainside where the shadows and cold were deep and unforgiving. The people of Lunarian wandered the streets, bundled against the chill. He noticed a tension on the faces of those they passed by, and Silas knew the reason.
On every noticeboard they passed, were missives noting the Rift’s rapid growth along with a warning against using any magic near midnight due to the increasing number of accidents and disappearances. Other notices featured the ‘diligent work’ of the Ivory City scholars to correct the anomalies.
The reminders were everywhere, not to mention the sliver of Monolith bumping against his hip with every stride.
Amelia shivered, pulling her cloak tightly around her. They turned down an alleyway before approaching a twisting wooden staircase which led to a crooked, half-collapsed shop that looked like it had been wedged unceremoniously between two far grander and sturdier buildings.
The sign above the door was so faded it was nearly unreadable.
The mystical arts of Archmage, Fabian Eros.
Wards, visions, and unravelled destinies.
Silas exhaled a misted breath. “Why does this already feel like a mistake?”
Amelia squinted at the sign before looking at him incredulously. “What was your first clue? The half-decayed sign, or the fact that this place looks like it might fall apart if I sneezed too hard?” She sniffed, rubbing at her red nose. “Which is a dangerous possibility.”
He chuckled. “I was going to say the use of ‘Archmage’,” he said, eyeing the peeling signpost. “I’ve never found a true mage who needs to remind people they’re powerful. Feels forced.”
Amelia hummed her agreement. “Well, we don’t have many options, so let’s see this through.” She reached for the handle but stopped, glancing back with a sly smile. His breath hitched at the sight. “Though, perhaps we can have a code to indicate we should leave. How about ‘hokum’?”
Silas snorted, reaching past to pull open the door for her. “Delightfully applicable.”
A creak echoed underfoot as they stepped inside, both pausing as the door clanged shut.
The small shop was a disaster.
Shelves leaned precariously, groaning under the weight of dusty tomes and mismatched bottles filled with shimmering liquids. The scent of herbs and incense cloyed at his nose, fillingthe air with an unpleasant thickness. Crystals hung suspended above their heads, humming faintly.
A table sat in the centre, covered in brightly burning, half-melted candles, wax across the wood and dripping from the sides. A large skull of unknown origin sat in the middle of the table, empty eye sockets watching with judgement.
“Uh, I’m not sold,” Amelia whispered, edging slightly closer to him, eyes darting around. A throat cleared behind a shelf before emitting a disturbing honking noise. They shared a cringing look, Silas already fumbling behind for the door handle when a man, surprisingly young, in an oversized robe with bright, green eyes, walked around the corner, spotting them.
“Ah-ha!” he bellowed, slamming a hand onto the table, dislodging a wax stalactite from the edge to clatter to the floorboards.
Silas blinked, stunned. Amelia took a surprised half-step back.
The man leaned across the table, his robes in serious danger of catching alight from the burning candles. “I knew you would come! The stars foretold your arrival!” He tapped against the table, flames shifting alarmingly. He pulled something from his pocket, waving it before them. “My prophecy never lies.”
Silas peered at the crumpled paper, certain it resembled a receipt more than anything prophetic. He glanced sideways at Amelia, catching her growing look of disdain. He looked back to the odd man. “You’re…Fabian Eros, I presume?”
The man’s eyebrows shot up and he straightened, placing his hands importantly to his chest. “ArchmageFabian Eros, but yes, yes! Oh, and you—” Fabian pointed a long finger at Silas. “—You, are doomed.”
Silas’ eyes fell shut at the lunacy, already drafting a string of words for his mother for sending them to this crackpot.
“Wonderful,” he mumbled.
